Disarmed
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: When Harry has exiled himself in order to heal from the memories of Azkaban, will someone's comfort turn into something more? Sequel to "Breaking the Heart of Darkness"


**A/N: This is a SLASH sequel to my story called "Breaking the Heart of Darkness". While theoretically you can read this as a stand-alone piece, it'll make more sense if you have the background story. So please read that one first if you want to understand where Harry's character is coming from. But since I'd like you to read this, I'll summarize. Harry spent 5 years from the time he was 16 in Azkaban for killing Peter Pettigrew. He chose this prison sentence out of guilt. After he was released, he refused to join the war against Voldemort, instead abandoning the wizarding world. He returned to Hogwarts six years later, at the age of 27, out of desperation. Only after another failed attempt at suicide did he finally come clean with all his old friends about the reason for his imprisonment, which they all assumed was for Death Eater activity. This story takes place when Harry is 28 and has exiled himself again in order to recover from the memories of Azkaban. **

A/N Part 2: All the Tennyson quotes I've used come either from "Ulysses", "Locksley Hall", and "Ask Me No More". And Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale". And sorry for the rather long author's note. And please review. And please don't diminish my hope for humanity by flaming me for the m/m aspect of this story. It's not graphic, but it's there and hopefully it's honest.

It was a November morning, seven months after Harry Potter had been "exonerated", when Severus Snape showed up on his door step. Harry had done his best to fulfill the promise he'd made to his godfather, Sirius. He'd stayed on at Hogwarts long enough to clear the air of any lingering bad blood between himself and the many old friends that had believed the worst of him, that night twelve years ago, when he'd allowed himself to be sentenced to a term in Azkaban for the crime of murder. It was one of the hardest things he'd had to do, trying to repair the damage the past had done. It didn't help that all Harry wanted to do was run away again. Not to America, like he had for six years after being released from prison. But to this place, Glencoe. The burial ground of a race of giants, according to Dickens. He must have meant the mountains, the massive shoulders, curving hips, scattered, reaching, embracing arms and hands. He must have meant the wild vegetation, like a grave unattended. 

Maybe a year ago, when he was in the midst of the nervous breakdown that had led him to confess all to his friends, Harry would not have been able to think of graves. He would not have been able to think of the dark, the Dementors, the rats. And he wouldn't have been able to keep himself from thinking about pills and razor blades and any handy object that would allow him some relief. But that was before he'd told them the truth. That no, he was never a Death Eater like they had feared. No, he was a killer still, but his victim had been Peter Pettigrew and his punishment had been asked for. Begged for even, and when that went no where, extorted out of Minister Fudge. And then, after the grand revelation, there had been the questions. So many questions, his friends needing to understand _why_ he'd thrown away his life when most of them didn't think he should even apologize for murdering that Death Eater in cold blood. And since Harry was a hero again, and since he'd promised Sirius that he wouldn't run away again until he'd given everyone all the answers and time and friendship that he could give, Harry had stayed at the school. He'd started to smile again, to talk again, to laugh with Hermione and her husband Ron on those weekends when he had the time to join Harry and Hermione in the castle. But Harry soon realized that just because everything _should_ be better, it didn't always work like that. Eleven years, five in Azkaban and six spent running from it, weren't easy to erase overnight. So, in mid-April, Harry had said his goodbyes, promised that he would keep and touch, and he left whatever life he had thought he was rebuilding. Because he couldn't pretend that he didn't hear voices at night. He couldn't pretend that some nights he'd rather end things with one swipe of a blade than to wake up in the morning and be forced to pretend that he was not a killer. Because, even though everyone refused to see it, he was. He was.

And he was still battling his demons when Severus Snape turned up on his doorstep in November. And then the Potions Master let himself into the cottage and Harry felt as if he was about to battle yet another one.

"I don't imagine you have the wrong door, or that you just happened to be in the neighborhood," Harry laughed. Some time in his second stay at Hogwarts, the two of them had become tentative friends. Snape had discovered three years ago what it was like to be a reluctant hero, having proved himself in the final victory over Voldemort, a victory which Harry had had no part in. And since the age of sixteen, Harry had been discovering what it was to be a repentant murderer, so he supposed they had a lot in common.

"No, I find it hard to imagine why _anyone_ would willingly be in the neighborhood," Snape answered, whispering a spell to clear the frost off his boots before ushering himself into the small sitting room. "You do realize that it's _winter_, don't you?" he barked.

Harry looked around the room. No fire lit. No warming charms. He looked down. No shirt. "I've just got out of the shower. Sorry, I'm not accustomed to entertaining guests," he answered, starting a fire and setting a kettle to boil to make tea. "Mint ok? I've only just run out of Earl Gray," he offered, pulling out the mugs, feeling more human than he had for months, only for knowing what kind of tea Snape preferred.

"I wouldn't complain over anything hot," Snape answered, setting himself down onto the chair closest to the fire.

"For future reference, the anti-apparation wards only extend a few yards to the west," Harry said, pouring the water over the tea bags and absently rubbing the space above his heart.

"Why the difference to the north?" Snape asked. 

"Well, the slight ravine in the west is a bit tricky to manage," Harry answered. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both please. Tastes more like a candy cane that way," Snape answered, eagerly accepting the mug, wrapping his long fingers about it to absorb the warmth.

"A bit early to be getting into the holiday spirit, isn't it?" Harry asked, smiling at the mental image of a child Severus Snape eagerly wading through presents under a Christmas tree. He briefly wondered if either of them had ever been that happy in their youth.

"No, Christmas seems to start in the first weeks of December at Hogwarts. Glass ornaments slowly invade, one by one, until the entire Great Hall is one mirrored rainbow," Snape answered wistfully, while Harry popped into his room for a shirt.

"Not to sound…inhospitable, but what is it that you want?" Harry asked, returning into the room and sitting on the overstuffed sofa opposite Snape.

"I suppose a social call sounds far-fetched to you, does it?" Snape asked in return, setting down his mug and moving almost imperceptibly closer to the fire.

"Only a little," Harry smiled. "You came to see if I was still alive, didn't you?"

"I assume you found the little tracking charm your godfather threw on you before you left," Snape answered.

"You sound as if you disapprove of what he did."

"I do. We both know that I value privacy. And honesty, to a certain extent."

"Then why were you paying attention to the signal?" Harry asked.

"I wasn't, really. I happened to come across the receiver, a picture of you in this case, that was set to be illuminated if you were still alive and in good physical health. Needless to say, Sirius and I had a disagreement about it and I confiscated it. It was only happenstance that I noticed when it went dark," Snape answered, smoothly, like he'd rehearsed it.

"Where was it?" Harry asked.

"My offices."

"Why didn't you just destroy it?"

"I spoke to Remus about it and he led me to believe that the picture was somewhat important to your godfather. I've found that I now have a tendency to avoid confrontation with other staff members. Must be old age," Snape answered.

"You're only fifty. This year, right?"

"Yes, this past August," Snape answered.

"Happy belated birthday then. So, if I understand it correctly, you've had a picture of me sitting in your office for a few months?"

"It's not as if I moon over it every waking hour, Harry. It was only-"

"Happenstance, yes, you said. What great luck, noticing the change the day I removed the spell," Harry smiled, rekindling the fire. He spared a glance at Snape and, even though the warm color rising on his cheek could have been from the fire alone, Harry decided to end that particular conversation, not wishing to make his guest uncomfortable. "How are they? The rest at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"Well. Well. Of course, you'd know this if you wrote more often," Snape hinted.

"Master of subtlety, you are," Harry grinned. "Besides, I write once a month. I am 28 now, you know. I think I can go unsupervised for thirty days in a row."

"You shouldn't take people's care for you for granted," Snape admonished. "It's not unreasonable for your friends to wish for more of your time. They went without you for so long."

"Yes, but in all honesty, they probably didn't want me around at the time, did they?" Harry retorted, glad that he had kept from sounding bitter. "Maybe they regret the lost years in hindsight, but not back then. And I thought you of all people would understand why I needed to come here."

"Well, maybe not _here_, but I do understand, yes. Harry, really, how are you?" Snape asked. Harry knew that the professor had already taken in his slightly emaciated form, the dark rings under his eyes, the unnatural acceptance of physical cold.

"I wish I could say that the flu I suffered through last month was to blame for this, but I do enjoy being honest with you. So, honestly, I'm not doing so good. If you had called in June, it would have been a different story. Oddly enough, everything good in me seemed to die with the grass and flowers. But I can't let myself be governed by the seasons, can I ?" he finished.

"No, you can't," Snape answered quietly, turning his head to watch the setting Scottish sun. The reds and purples bled into the room, trying to smother everything, trying to climb over Harry's hair, which was even more wild in the highland setting. He had the beginning of a beard to, only a sixteen-year-old's beard, five days' growth looking like one's. It was a trick of time, he supposed. Being imprisoned at that age had frozen his growth, leaving him a few inches short of six feet. But it had turned every mature thought in his brain cancerous, spreading and multiplying without control, until now. Now, Harry looked sixteen, thought like he was sixty, and acted like…like Snape didn't know what.

"Shouldn't you have sent word to Hogwarts by now? Letting them know I'm fine, I mean," Harry asked, trying to ignore the eyebrow Snape raised at his overly optimistic self-assessment.

"No one knows there was reason to worry," Snape answered.

"You just left school, in the middle of the week?" Harry asked, not as shocked as he thought he should be.

"I had some time coming. I've taken a week off, eleven days if I need it. Hermione is supervising my classes."

"Why so long?" Harry asked.

"I didn't know what state you'd be in when I found you," he answered.

Harry couldn't imagine any state that would warrant such a lengthy stay, but he wasn't sorry for it. Noticing the growing darkness in the room, he turned to the window. The sun was just going behind the mountain, exerting a few last blinding rays, relying on the reflection off the snow and ice for their power.

"It's going to be black as pitch in a few minutes," Harry mused. "Not even the stars like living out here in winter. They follow all the sensible people to the suburbs at the start of fall. You're welcome to stay, if you'd like."

"Thank you," Snape answered.

"The whole eleven days even," Harry murmured, rising to rummage through the kitchen cabinets, taking inventory of everything and deciding that he'd let Snape cook. Any decent potions master ought to be able to handle supper.

"Whatever's necessary," Snape whispered in return, before joining Harry in the kitchen. "There's no way I'm letting you cook. My stomach does _not_ have the resilience of a cauldron, and I've seen you melt a few of those in your day," he smiled, reaching for the hanging pot rack and pulling down what he needed. Harry could have moved out of his way, since the kitchen was nearly as small as his old cupboard under the stairs, but the simple pleasure of being close to another human being kept him in his place. Or maybe it was the sight of Snape stretching his arms to high shelves, of his hands flying over jars and cans and packages, and then over a knife, making Harry shiver, then blush, then curse himself for the reaction. He would _not_ bring his sickness into this. He would _not_ let whatever he felt for Snape be tainted by the nightmares he'd been fighting all this time. _Something_ had to be pure for him, and Snape was there, so changed from the professor of his past that Harry could almost see him as a new beginning. But he also refused to simplify the situation into terms of self-therapy. Snape deserved more than that, as a friend or as anything else. So Harry left the kitchen, conjuring a bar stool to sit at the counter of the breakfast nook, where he had a clear view of everything Snape was doing.

"What are you making?" Harry asked, again scratching the place right above his heart, but noticing this time and wondering why he felt he needed something there.

"Pasta's the only thing it could be, really. You're dreadfully unprepared for a house guest I'm afraid," Snape answered, tossing a package of angel hair into the soft boiling water, then turning his attention to sauce. "Do you like olives?" he asked.

"They wouldn't be here if I didn't," Harry smiled gently. "Are you sure I can't help?"

"I don't suppose all the faith people have in you extends to you being able to turn water into wine?" Snape half-heartedly sneered, pitting the olives and tossing them into the pan with the simmering olive oil, garlic, and canned tomatoes. 

"Sorry, no. My transfiguration career was cut short I'm afraid," Harry answered, moving back into the kitchen to find the bottle of white that he had hidden away above the icebox.

"I apologize for saying that," Snape whispered, his voice so close and warm against Harry's back that he nearly dropped the bottle of wine.

"Don't apologize," Harry chided, putting the wine on chill. "I've been trying for a more light-hearted approach to discussing my miseries. Obviously it's not working."

"Maybe if I'd known you were joking…you need to work on inflection," Snape answered, turning away from Harry to presumably attend to the stove.

"Well, I haven't exactly practiced aloud. That's another thing I'm working on, talking to myself."

"Was I supposed to laugh there?" Snape asked.

"Too late now," Harry mock-sighed. 

The meal prepared, they ate in silence, save for compliments to the chef and polite requests for more wine. At times it was an oddly comfortable quiet, and at others Harry would rather have Snape screaming "Ten points from Gryffindor!" than just sitting there, staring straight ahead like a social zombie. "Would you like some coffee?" Harry asked, the dinner done.

"Yes please, black," Snape answered, returning to "his" chair by the fire. "So, what have you been doing up here all these months, apart from perfecting a sense of humor and freezing to death?"

"Nothing terribly exciting," Harry admitted. "Reading, for leisure and also to improve my magical skills. _Not_ brewing potions though," he chuckled. "Other than that, I flew a few hours a day until it got to bloody cold. Made a garden that died a month later. Weekend things, you know? Only I could never convince myself that I had more than a weekend. Everything that I did for fun, all the times I actually got out of bed instead of…well, all those things felt so rushed, so…fast dying." Harry handed Snape his coffee and sat opposite him again, only on the floor rug in front of the fire place.

"Do you want me to ask you what you thought about, when you were-" 

"No," Harry interrupted, though he imagined that Snape hadn't planned on finishing the question. It would sound too inappropriate. 

"Well then, what did you read?" Snape asked.

"Just what the previous owner left behind," Harry answered, pointing to a small book case in the corner. 

"Who would abandon these?" Snape asked, having moved over to the case, kneeling to read the titles. Whoever it was had a penchant for the Victorian and Romantic periods.

"Someone very alone. The man died nearly a year ago and no one came to claim either him or his things," Harry answered, hoping that Snape wouldn't theorize that he was projecting this pathetic end onto himself, even if he was.

"Any favorites?" Snape asked. Harry had often pictured Snape as a Victorian man. It was all those buttons. And the aquiline nose. He reminded Harry of the fellow that played Sherlock Holmes in those old black and whites. Rathbone. And he used to act like some Gladgrind character out of Dickens, before he acknowledge his own heroism and allowed himself to be prey to admiration, friendship. Maybe even love, but Harry wouldn't know about that.

"I was hoping that it was Tennyson," Harry answered.

"Hoping?" Snape asked, eyebrow quirked in that way that amused Harry so.

"Yes, he's so…accepting but optimistic. Inspiring. You probably know the bit. 'Though much is taken, much abides; and though we are not now the strength which in old days moved the earth and heaven, that which we are, we are – one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,'" Harry quoted choppily. 

"But that's not your real favorite?" Snape asked.

"It might be. It's nice, don't you think?" he asked, embarrassed by the base words he used after such verse. "But I'm afraid I'm rather enamoured of Keats."

"Afraid because he died too young?" Snape asked.

"No, if that were it, I couldn't properly enjoy any of the late Romantics," Harry smiled, oddly proud of himself, even though knowing such things at 28 wasn't exactly precocious. "No, I don't want to have my world reduced to a place 'where youth grows pale and spectre-thin and dies; where but to think is to be full of sorrow'."

"Just because you enjoy something and are moved by it doesn't mean it must become you, Harry," Snape answered, returning to his chair. "I enjoy brewing poisons, truth be told, because they are more difficult at times, and more colorful. That doesn't mean I go about thinking I must be obsessed with death and pain. Anymore, that is," he smiled. Ah yes, inflection.

"Fine, let me rephrase. I read Tennyson because that's how I want to feel. I read Keats because that _is_ how I feel. And I was hoping it would be the other way around by now," Harry clarified.

"Why won't you let it be?" Snape asked.

"I've tried! I have, you know. But I can't make nightmares go away, and that's 7 hours where I have no control of what my mind is doing, and that's an hour before I go to bed spent worrying about that very thing, and an hour in the morning spent on…"

"On wishing you'd never wake up?" Snape asked.

"Or being sick, but yeah," Harry answered. "More coffee?"

"No, I'll never be able to sleep," Snape answered.

"It is late. Nearly one. I clearly need to fly into town tomorrow for some groceries. You can take my bed, if you'd like," Harry offered. 

"No, I'll just transfigure the sofa out here into something more comfortable," Snape smiled.

"Right. Of course. I sometimes forget we can do that. Think I can put it down to being raised a Muggle?" Harry asked.

"You could get away with that. I still see Hermione slip into old ways every once and again," Snape chuckled.

"I hope you don't make it too hard on her," Harry laughed. "Let me get you some blankets. Five out to be enough," he teased. "Then you can help me put up a silencing ward over my room."

"Silencing ward?" Snape asked, removing something from his vest pocket and enlarging it until Harry could see it was a traveling case.

"I wouldn't want you spraining your toe on something, rushing into my room at the first hint of screaming," Harry answered, his voice muffled through wool and the walls of the hall closet.

"It would be worth it I think," Snape answered softly. Harry wished he could have smiled at the man, but instead he just nodded his goodnight and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Severus Snape was just beginning to dream when the silence was shattered by a pitiful moan and god-awful scream from Harry's bedroom. He managed to make it half-way across the living room, jostling tables and chairs in the process, before deciding to turn back, picking up the heaviest blanket from his transfigured cot and wrapping it about his thin frame. The fire had died away and the wind outside had picked up, filling the room with cold and a soft but sharp whistling. Another scream reminded Severus of his purpose, and he rushed into Harry's room, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sight. 

Harry had kicked off his bedclothes in his struggle with whoever was making him scream, and now he lay there on his bed, curled into himself, crying and shivering and naked, the sweat on his back reflecting the dimming light of a candle that burned on the bedside table. Again, Harry screamed, and started to stretch himself out, moving his right hand to scratch furiously at his left arm, nails digging in so far that Severus knew he'd draw blood in a moment. Hesitating just once as he approached the bed, nearly tripping himself up with the sheets pooled at his feet, he sat softly beside the younger man, gravity causing Harry to shift slightly toward his presence, but still Harry would not wake, even when Severus quietly called his name, and even when he shouted "Potter!" No, Harry kept trying to rent his arm into pieces, and Severus, growing nauseous at the sight of blood collecting under Harry's fingernails, slowly reached out his hand and, briefly cursing himself for the tremor in his fingers, stayed Harry's hand.

He had braced himself for a shocked scream that never came. Harry merely woke up, stared into Severus's eyes, whispered "I'm sorry," and turned onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow. His gently rippling shoulders told Severus that he was either laughing or crying, or locked in an eternal shudder. Severus bent down and gathered up the duvet he had dropped from his own shoulders, covering Harry's lower body, leaving his back bare. That he covered with his own hand, lightly running his palm up and down Harry's spine, stopping himself just short of whispering nonsensical words of comfort that he so despised.

"Harry, you should let me look at your arm," he said instead, removing his hand, briefly clinging to the phantom sensation of Harry's skin on his own.

"My arm?" Harry asked, his voice rough and shaken, from his night terror Severus supposed.

"Yes, you were-"

"Tearing it apart?" Harry finished, flipping over and sitting up, not bothering to pull his cover further up. "It'll be fine in a few days. It always is."

"Do you want to-"

"I have this dream a couple of times a month. Always the same, some fantasy, mostly memories. I come back to Hogwarts, you tell me to talk to Sirius, I do. He calls me a Death Eater and I deny it, but when I get back to my room, I roll up my sleeve and see the Dark Mark. So I try to cut it off, because I know I was never a Death Eater, no matter what you all thought. I'm my own breed of monster. And then it goes back to memories. Draco finding me, being half healed, running away again, coming here. But instead of letting my wound heal, I claw at it until there's no flesh left. That's where you woke me up tonight," he finished, rubbing his hands over his face, leaving a spot of blood on his cheek.

"What would have happened if I hadn't?"

"You would have stopped me anyway," Harry answered, lying down again and, finally noticing the cold, pulled the blanket around him.

"In your dream, I stop you?" Severus asked.

"Yes."

"How?" Severus asked. He didn't know why he was asking. Maybe for future reference.

"By laughing at me," Harry smiled. Severus did too, and made to leave until a small hand grabbed his wrist. "Do you mind staying?" Harry asked. "I don't think I'll wake you-"

"Don't worry, it's fine," Severus answered. Harry moved to the furthest edge of the mattress and Severus briefly wished he could ask Harry to put on some clothes. But instead he stood, gathered up all the discarded blankets and sheets, spread them out over Harry and the rest of the bed, and climbed in, his back to Harry's back, enough room for both their ghosts between them.

The early sun pried its way into Harry's eyes, and the awareness of a slight sting in his left arm, coupled with the screaming pain from his right shoulder, threw him into the lucid world. His right arm was stretched out beneath his head, accounting for the aching joint. And Snape, fitted against his back, accounted for the aching warmth. A rhythmic pulse of hot breath beat softly against his neck, an arm slung loosely over his middle, hand settled limply over his navel, the cotton pajama sleeve tickling the hair there. Harry concentrated and could distinguish that same cotton pressed against his back, his legs. He wondered if Snape would feel awkward or embarrassed when he woke to find himself stretched around a naked former pupil, and Harry briefly considered quietly slipping out of bed and into a shower, getting dressed before Snape had the chance to regret any unconscious migration in the night. But instead he fought the more pressing desire to turn around and huddle into Snape's chest, and he simply pulled his arm from beneath his head, wincing as he stretched it out before him but being calmed by whatever instinct that prompted Snape to tighten his grip on Harry and pull him closer.

Harry could feel Snape's breathing change and he knew the man was awake, especially when the hand on his stomach went an inch or two lower, before stopping as Snape became aware of who he held in his arms. Harry reminded himself to let Snape walk away right now if he needed to, to not add to the older man's guilt or appeal for his mercy. Harry reminded himself not to be hurt or angry if Snape decided to later pretend that nothing had happened. Harry then reminded himself that nothing _had_ happened. This was just two grown men, in the same bed because pain and fear and cold had demanded it of them. Not lust. Not love.

"How's your arm?" Snape asked, startling Harry so much that he almost jumped. Snape slowly lifted his arm off Harry but made no move to put any distance between them.

"Fine. My shoulder hurts like hell though," Harry answered.

"Did you sleep on yours too?" Snape asked, obviously with a smile as a strong exhale assaulted Harry's neck.

"Yes. Maybe a hot shower will help," Harry answered, wondering why he was giving himself a reason to get out of bed. And wondering why he had to wonder. It had probably been five years or more since Harry had wasted any thought on romance, physical loneliness, physical desire. Before Azkaban, Harry had his share of a sixteen-year-old's idea of love, but that had been tempered and restrained by the growing conflict with Voldemort, and then by the Dementors of Azkaban, who would not allow such thoughts to exist. And for a couple of months after his release, he was able to repress all demons during daylight hours in his great need to make up for lost time. He traveled, drank, partied, worked, made some friends, had a few lovers even. And then time caught up with him in New York, where someone asked "Aren't you Harry Potter?" and he remembered that he was.

A hand gently directing him to turn over interrupted his thoughts and too grateful for this, Harry complied. Severus sat up and started kneading Harry's shoulder with one hand, using the other to gently pull Harry's left arm into the light. The scratched were an angry red, but not deep. A little water would probably clear most of the gore away, and Severus only wished that the same could be said for the blood Harry still felt was on his hands. He briefly considered confessing all of his Death Eater atrocities to the younger man, to show him what a _real_ killer looked like. But then Harry moaned.

"Feel any better?" Severus asked hoarsely, wishing he had nightmares to blame it on.

"Thank you," Harry answered. Severus had stopped and taken his hands off him, and wondered what Harry's reply referred to. "Would you like to shower first?" Harry asked, still speaking into his pillow.

"No, you go ahead. Make sure to take care of your arm," Snape answered. "I'll fix something for breakfast, if you'd like."

"Can you make some coffee?" Harry asked.

Snape nodded and left, knowing that Harry wouldn't have been able to see him. He only wanted to leave the room before Harry stood up and let the blankets fall.

Twenty minutes later, the two were picking at eggs and toast, drinking coffee black and wondering if this silence was going to be trademark for Severus's entire stay. "Why don't you go shower now while I clean up," Harry suggested. Snape nodded again and, retrieving his bag from the living room, went into the bathroom. His nose was assaulted by all of Harry's scents. A simple woodsy soap. Unremarkable shampoo. Shaving foam that oddly had a hint of vanilla. And an underlying salty scent that had Severus groaning as he stepped under the shower head.

Severus dressed more warmly than he had the day before, even though he was certain the sunlight would make it a little less frigid. He tried to remember a time when he wasn't dressed in black around Harry, but failed. Black was a matter of practicality for a Potions Master who spent most of his days with students prone to exploding their potions and making messes of their ingredients, and few ever cared to come to his rooms after hours to see the rest of his wardrobe displayed. Severus wondered if Harry would be surprised by the earth tones and blues, but Harry merely smiled at him as he returned to the living room.

"I hope you've brought a heavier coat," Harry said, pulling his own on. "Glencoe Village is quite a flight from here."

"We're not Apparating?" Severus asked.

"Oh," Harry answered, a frown crossing his face. "That would probably be easier for you. You don't even have a broom here, do you?"

"I can have one sent on today," Severus answered, realizing that Harry wouldn't know how to apparate. "I'll meet you there in the meantime. Where should I wait?"

"I usually land about a ten minute walk from the village. Near a clump of trees on the west side of town. It's hard to miss. I can be there in twenty minutes," Harry answered.

"I'll be there. Why don't you go now? I'll stay and write a letter to Dumbledore first," Severus answered.

Snape was waiting for Harry once he reached the wooded landing site. The flight had been enjoyable for the most part, the cold wind clearing his mind of things that he was sure were inappropriate for the given situation. Perhaps it was odd that Snape had come to check on Harry at all, but the most Harry was willing to divine out of that was that some semblance of responsibility had driven the professor to the middle of nowhere just in time to rescue the famous Harry Potter, once again. And the most Harry could hope was that it was also an act of a friend. But it wouldn't be fair to either of them for him to attribute the gesture to anything more, even if Snape had clutched Harry to him during the night. Even if his breath was a little ragged and uneven when he massaged his shoulder earlier that morning. Even if he was willing to stay with Harry for as long as it took, whatever "it" meant this time around.

"You found it ok, then?" Harry asked rather shyly, casting an invisibility spell over his Firebolt and hiding it under some bushes. Snape was kind enough not to answer, and the two began walking into town, Harry leading the way to the market place.

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?" Snape asked, eyeing the fresh vegetables on display.

"No, choose whatever you'd like. I normally spare just enough effort for some pasta or simple chicken," Harry admitted. "Just charge everything to my account."

"I can pay," Snape offered, placing some asparagus, fresh basil, and tomatoes in his bag.

"Don't worry about it. I've got that payoff from Fudge to spend," Harry smiled wryly. 

"Payoff? What did he give you?" Snape asked. Harry realized that he hadn't made his arrangement with Fudge common knowledge, and now he remembered why. Whatever he said would sound like bragging and feel even worse.

"Let's just say that along with my original bank account came a nice little bonus for time served and a promise that I'll never be desperate for a job," Harry answered.

"He offered you a post at the Ministry?" Snape laughed. Harry couldn't help but join in. It did sound rather incredible.

"I know! Can't you just see me, shiny Auror badge pinned to my chest like I'm Percy Weasley gloating about being Head Boy." The laughter in Harry's voice died off quickly. It was easy for him to forget the past that he had deliberately missed when faced with his own. Percy had, of course, been arrested as a Dark Wizard shortly after Harry's release. Only Percy had been guilty, and Percy did not have a deal with the Ministry that would get him out of Azkaban any time soon. Maybe in fifty or sixty years, but only because he'd be dead by then, the longevity promised to him by blood being sucked out along with every good thing in his life.

"No, you wouldn't have gloated," Snape said, harshly enough for Harry to notice that he was being handled. "You would have done your job and made sure that you shared the credit. And you would have been a fair Head Boy too. You would have broken more rules than propriety would have allowed, but you would have been forgiven for that. Not because you'd demand to be, but because it would have been acceptable for you to be. Even if I wouldn't have admitted to it at the time. And you would have graduated with a respectable amount of N.E.W.T.s because Hermione would have insisted. And you would have won the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup and you would have been happy that you beat Slytherin, just like everyone else would be. And you would have fought bravely in the war and you would have survived. Not out of dumb luck and not because others had to die to protect you. You would have won because you're a good wizard, and powerful, and moral. And I can believe all that. I can see all that very clearly. And I can also see that who you are now is not so far from who you could have been. Because in that version of things, you still have the capacity to kill a man. If it hadn't been Pettigrew, it would have been some faceless Death Eater. And, more than likely, it would have been Voldemort himself. And you know, you would have crucified yourself for _that_ death too. Because you are good, and powerful, and moral. And you wouldn't have been able to see a difference between the two situations. You would have convinced yourself that a death is a death, a murder is a murder. You wouldn't even dream that something like that could be justifiable. And I'm glad. It's part of who you are, Harry, and no matter what you tell yourself, who you are, at this moment, is _not_ less than what your parents hoped you would be. You're more than anyone could ever imagine." Snape delivered these words in a calm, seamless stream, directing them at bottles of wine and cuts of meat and cans of cocoa and jars of olives, at cash registers and door handles and everything else but Harry's face. He didn't need to. In fact, Harry rather thought that Snape imagined he was sparing the younger man some unneeded pain. It was hard enough, hearing such things from a man he had once loathed and once failed. It was so hard that Harry could only weakly whisper, "Let's go home."

Severus retrieved Harry's broom from the bushes and, not trusting the still stunned wizard to fly, concentrated on safely apparating the two of them back to the front lawn of Harry's cottage. Perhaps he had gone a bit overboard with the dramatics. Maybe even with the sentiments. It wasn't as if Severus had taken an active role in his thought processes. He hadn't, not since his arrival at Harry's door the night before. Something in the situation insisted that he be honest, at least when it came to his opinions about Harry's self-imposed exile. At least he could take comfort in the fact that the same demand for openness didn't extend to any physical actions he might wish to take. Except for that shoulder rub that morning. In all honesty, Severus had no idea where that had come from. He had no idea where _any_ of this was coming from. All he knew was that when Harry had said "Let's go home," something in Severus's heart had fluttered and burned at the same time, and he only wanted to add "and never leave."

Harry was still wide-eyed and silent by the time they returned to the living room, so Severus gently steered him into the chair with a kitchen view. He then set about making lunch and feeble, one-sided conversation, biding his time until Harry either broke down and accepted all he had said, or blew up and tossed him out on his arse.

"I see Albus has sent along my broom," Snape began, concentrating on keeping things light and mundane while he worked on a light warm salad. "I spoke to him via fire, instead of owl, since you don't seem to have one. I was to tell you that Remus, your godfather, Hermione and Ron all say hello and by the way Albus was blushing, I'm assuming they made rather colorful threats against you for not writing more often. Apparently, Neville says hello too, from the Hospital Wing. Seems Albus had a lapse in judgement, or memory, or maybe he simply had an overabundance of faith, and he let Neville cover one of my first year classes. Needless to say, there was much bloodshed and ruin. He'll probably cower and beg forgiveness when I return. But it's part of my new image to be tolerable of other members of the staff, so I'll try not to send him _back_ to the infirmary." 

Severus felt oddly at ease, prattling on like this in front of Harry. Maybe it was the blank stare on the younger man's face. Almost reminiscent of his potions classroom, during the more tedious lectures, or any time that Severus was too tired to bite his students' heads off for being inattentive. Severus flipped the slowly crisping chicken and turned his attention to the warming peanut Thai dressing that he was preparing. Confident that nothing would burn, he continued with his monologue. "You missed quite a Halloween Ball this year. Albus made the entire school, staff included, come in costume. I know this is a Muggle tradition in some parts of the world, but wizarding populations don't normally observe such fanciful customs. Still, it was quite a sight. Charlie Weasley must have had a lot of help in order to perfect the charms that allowed him to walk around the Great Hall as a mirror image of a Chinese Fireball. I suppose you can say I went in costume as well. I merely wore my normal habit and claimed I was a vampire," Severus smiled.

"Why did you become a teacher?" Harry asked. Severus had hoped that his last comment would draw Harry into the conversation with a laugh, but he was not expecting this.

"I didn't have much of a choice at the time. I needed to stay on Hogwarts grounds for my own protection, after '81. The Ministry was still suspicious of me and I needed an excuse to be far away from any disenfranchised Death Eaters who thought I still should be their friend. Really, I only felt comfortable at the school and teaching there seemed easier than going out into the world at that time and trying to make a living," Severus answered.

"What would you have done if you hadn't been offered the job?"

"Independent research, perhaps. Or I would have tried to secure a position at a private institution. A supply company for an apothecary or hospital maybe."

"But you prefer to be a teacher, don't you?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Severus answered. It felt like he was just deciding this, just as he spoke.

"Why?"

"Let's just say that 'Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore. And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.'"

"That's Tennyson!" Harry exclaimed with a gratifying happiness that made Severus smile.

"Yes, I had the chance to read some last night, before-". Severus couldn't keep that half sentence from hovering over them, any more than he could keep himself from flushing at the memory of waking up wrapped around Harry.

"Are you cold?" Harry asked, and Severus damned himself for shivering. But then, it was actually cold in the room, the heat of the stove having died away as they ate their meal. He'd also failed to put an adequate charm on his shoes and the brief trek from the edge of the security wards to the front door had made him abandon his soaked footwear at the door. 

"Only a little. This place has no heating system?" Severus asked, banishing empty dishes into the sink.

"I thought it was strange too," Harry admitted. "I'm assuming that the previous owner was a Muggle and I don't know how he survived the winter without a radiator or a decent warming charm."

"Perhaps he flew south for the season," Severus suggested. "When I was a child, my family would pack off to South Africa."

"No heat at your house either?" Harry smiled.

"Something like that," Severus answered. "But a more convincing incentive was the annual family reunion of sorts."

"I didn't know your family came from South Africa."

"Oh, we didn't. But a number of cousins on my father's side had business there, and my grandparents relocated there shortly after I was born."

"Were you intimidating as a baby too?" Harry chuckled, as he tended to the fire.

"Hardly. You'd never believe it to look at me, but I was a blonde. Ringlets and all," Severus scowled. He'd been so embarrassed in his second year at Hogwarts when his mother had shown off his baby pictures to half of his professors, including Albus Dumbledore, who insisted on bringing it up whenever Snape was trying his best to look murderous.

"You're joking!" Harry laughed, putting his whole heart into it for the first time since Severus had come. "What happened?"

"My hair simply grew darker and straighter every year, until it was this color by the time I was eight or so. Thank the stars for small miracles."

"And I had straight hair once upon a time," Harry smiled. "But now I'm stuck with this," he said, pointing at the wild feathers and black plumage sticking out at practically all angles from his scalp.

"To be fair, you've just come back from flying," Severus pointed out.

"Don't try to humor me. It won't work," Harry grinned.

"Well, if you'd cut it short it might be more manageable," Severus suggested, aware how surreal this conversation was turning but unable to stop it. He had the sinking suspicion that he'd lost control of things the moment he stepped into Harry's bedroom last night.

"It's no good. My aunt used to hack it all off once a week and it would just grow back to normal length," Harry answered.

"Perhaps because she 'hacked it all off', as you so delicately put it. If you were uncomfortable with the style, your magic would have saved you from embarrassment. But if you wanted it to be shorter, it would be."

"It's all a matter of will?" Harry asked quietly.

"Yes. Some things are that simple."

"Not enough things," Harry answered.

"More than you think, Harry."

They both sat and stared at the fireplace for a few minutes, neither knowing what to say to avoid fighting about an opinion they could not now agree upon. Finally, just when Severus was about to lean further into his chair and close his eyes, Harry broke the silence.

"I'm going to do it!" he announce, boldly, like he was running off to join the military.

"Do what?" Snape asked warily.

"Cut my hair," Harry beamed. "Right now. Want to watch? It promises to be a great show."

"What, you're going to do it yourself?" Snape asked, sounding so incredulous that Harry was even more convinced that it was a great idea.

"Sure, why not?"

"What do you know about trimming hair?" Snape asked.

"I gave myself this haircut," Harry answered.

"Need I repeat the question?" Snape smirked, earning and scowl from Harry. "Besides, you'll butcher it."

"But there's the beauty of it!" Harry laughed. "It'll grow back if I do. Like a garden of weeds, really." Harry didn't bother to wait and see what Snape had in answer to that. He walked off into the small bathroom, smiled at the alien scents that must belong to Snape, a hint of sweet clove that he'd never associated with the man, and briefly held his head under a running tap. After finding a towel to prevent mess and then remembering that he _was_ a wizard that could handle a few cleaning spells, he rummaged through the drawer beneath the sink and pulled out a pair of scissors that were reasonably clean. He had already started felling his lengthy bangs when Snape's voice broke in and almost made him drop his scissors.

"Oh, give me those before you cut an ear off," Snape snapped, wrestling the weapons away from Harry with an impatient sigh. Harry turned back to look at the mirror, his breath hitching in his throat when Snape's fingers brushed his cheek on their way to take the glasses off his face. And then he was holding his breath as Snape swiftly ran his fingers through Harry's damp hair, blunt nails briefly massaging and leaving all too quickly.

"I thought you'd stopped wearing these," Snape said.

"Hmm?" Harry asked, willing himself not to lean back into Snape's chest. Perhaps the only thing keeping him still was the threat of being stabbed in the head with very dull blades.

"The glasses. You didn't have them on yesterday," Snape answered, his deep timbre punctuated by the soft clicking of metal on metal.

"I don't like flying with contacts on my eyes. Especially in the cold," Harry answered, shivering when the scissors pressed against his temple.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Snape said softly, looking Harry in the eyes in the mirror.

"I know."

When Snape was finished, Harry had a simple but nice close-cut, long enough to run fingers through but short enough for that to be the only grooming needed. But it didn't last long, and before their very eyes, the hair grew back to its original length, a mop-top tousled by non-existent wind.

"Well, it wasn't meant to be," Snape chuckled, returning the scissors to the drawer and cleaning up all the hair from the floor and counter.

"Pity," Harry sighed. "I rather liked it."

"I wonder why it grew back then," Snape said, following Harry back into the living room.

"Probably because I wouldn't be able to do this," Harry answered, flattening the hair down over his forehead, effectively hiding half of his scar. "It's strange, how I forgot about it."

"What do you mean?" Snape asked, sitting down in his chair.

"For a few years, I completely forgot about this bloody scar. In the 'normal' world, people don't go about pointing out things like this, not if you don't know them very well," Harry smiled.

"And I take it you never got to…know anyone well, when you were abroad?" Snape asked.

"For a few months, in the beginning, I knew quite a few people well enough for them to think they had a right to know all about me. But that's the thing with perception, isn't it? Not always equal on both sides. How about you?" Harry felt sure that he didn't deserve an answer from Snape about anything remotely personal, but that didn't stop him from wanting…whatever it was that Harry wanted. He wasn't even sure of that anymore.

"You mean this?" Snape asked, pushing up the sleeve of his jumper to reveal the Dark Mark, less ugly in color than Harry remembered it, but no less ugly in what it represented, once upon a time. "Are you asking me if I would feel comfortable teaching my classes in short-sleeved shirts?" Snape half-smiled.

"Would you?" 

"No. But you know how cold the dungeons can be."

"But if-" Harry began to persist, only to be cut off by Snape.

"No, I don't think I would. And I can't tell you why. I know that I can barely look at the thing without…"

"Wishing you'd never wake up?" Harry smiled.

"Or being sick," Snape finished in turn. "So I can't say if I'm hiding it from myself, or from others. It's idiotic either way though, isn't it? Everyone knows. I know. But that doesn't much matter."

"And do you ever forget?" Harry asked quietly.

"Sometimes," Snape sighed. "Sometimes. But my life has very few distractions."

"Would…would anything _good_ in your life be that? Just a distraction?" Harry asked.

Severus saw how vulnerable Harry looked at that moment and the laugh that he was about to answer with died in his throat. How could he possibly say yes, even if he felt that it was the most honest answer, up until that moment? How could he say yes and still retain hope that whatever this _thing_ that was going on between he and Harry would actually mean something to the younger man? And how could he say no? "I don't know," Severus answered, almost to himself, it was so quiet. "I don't know how to answer that. Maybe…maybe I haven't had anything _good_ in my life, since this mark was burned into me. Does that sound like an honest answer to you?" he finished with a desperate laugh. "I think the fresh air out here is getting to me."

"Quick, find him another dungeon," Harry quipped to thin air. 

"And some wit-sharpening potion," Severus smirked. "I used to be better at this."

"At what?" Harry asked.

"Spilling my dirty little secrets."

"Dumbledore?"

"Of course," Severus answered, knowing that he was half-scowling, half-smiling, knowing how _odd_ that expression played out on his face, but unable to help it. Being a friend of Albus Dumbledore was nearly the most painful experience of his life. Except, of course, for not being one.

"Did he stop asking?" Harry asked.

"No. Sadly enough, I ran out. You would think there'd be a never-ending supply, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, there is. There is. But there are some things that I'm sure even Dumbledore knows are private," Harry smiled. "Granted, a very select few."

"Yes, he has little interest in what you're eating, unless it's too much or too little, in who you are involved with, unless they make you too happy or too miserable, in who you're friends with, unless they're the right sort or the wrong sort, in-"

"All right, point taken," Harry smiled. "So, eating?"

"Well enough, as you've seen." 

"Friends?"

"Albus. Minerva. Draco. Remus. Hermione. Upstanding citizens all around."

"And-"

"No one," Severus answered, hoping that his voice held little to betray him, so he did the most prudent but blatantly obvious thing he could think of and changed the focus of the conversation. "You, on the other hand, could use a few good meals. And your friendships need better maintenance. And as I'm sure that both your diet and your social skills are none of my business, I'll spare you any inquiries into your love life."

"I wouldn't mind," Harry answered. "I asked you about yours, didn't I?"

"To be fair, I doubt I satisfied any burning curiosity with my two syllable answer," Severus deadpanned. 

"I think we're breaking new ground here as it is. What can it hurt to tell? Do you think I'd use anything against you?"

"No," Severus sighed. "Fine, ask your questions."

"Why me?" Harry asked, sounding comically frightened by the prospect.

"I wouldn't feel comfortable in setting the tone," Severus answered. Really, he didn't know where to begin, and Harry knew it.

"Fine, how many?" Harry asked with all the eloquence of a caveman. 

"Nine, first one when I was thirteen. Ani. Last one when I was 42. Christian. How about you?"

"Five, in the first two months after I was released. I don't remember their names. Did you love any of them? Your nine?"

"At the time, I thought I did. But really the closest I came was with Christian."

"But he died, didn't he?" Harry asked.

"Yes. I suppose I shouldn't bother asking if you loved any of your five."

"No, I didn't. Not even at the time. Not even for a moment."

"But you hoped you would?" Severus asked.

"No, I don't think so," Harry answered. "I think I knew I didn't have it in me to feel _anything_, so soon after. I only did it because I felt it had to be done."

"To make up for lost time?"

"Yes. And to bring something normal into my life. Twenty-one. Prime of life, and all that rot. Did you go through that?"

"No, I was in the middle of a war when I was twenty-one. But we're wizards. The prime of our life can last well into the forties," Severus smiled.

"So you think you're due?" Harry smirked. "Time to sow your wild oats?"

"Well-"

"You'd have to take your shirt off," Harry finished.

"Something like that," Severus admitted. "And now I'm fifty. Past the mark. How about you, now? Would you be ready? Fuck the scar, would you have it in you to feel?" he asked, shocking himself with the language laden with emotion.

"How do I know?" Harry asked.

"Would happiness be enough for you?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then you know," Severus answered. Because, as sparse as it might have been, he'd seen happiness in Harry's eyes.

"I think I'm going to have a lie down in my room," Harry said, knowing that Snape could see he wasn't tired. But then, it was cold, and this time Harry could feel it. Crawling under the covers of his bed wouldn't stop his mind from spinning with what Harry could only assume were possibilities that he had kept himself from seeing, but at that moment it was like everything that he hadn't allowed himself to feel was physically forcing its way into Harry's body, crawling under his skin. He both needed to shed himself of his winter shell to spare his skin of the contact, and to be touched everywhere at once. What he wanted, he realized, was to wake up with Snape draped over his shoulders, but he would settle for being devoured by the bed sheets that were probably cooling to fit the room's temperature.

"Are you feeling well?" Snape asked, and Harry wondered why the man bothered to affect indifference. From what Harry could divine of the man, Snape wasn't the type to waste words on social graces, so he wouldn't have asked if he didn't care to know the answer, whether out of concern or simple curiosity.

"Yes. No. I'm not sure," Harry faltered. "It may be all the late nights catching up to me. Either that, or you poisoned my salad," he finished, smiling faintly since it was all he could manage.

"Do you mind if I borrow one of your books while you're resting?" Snape asked.

"No, make yourself at home," Harry answered. "But if you leave, could you…leave a note or something?" He hated how young he sounded. How young he felt. Because it made Snape seem that much further away.

"Of course."

Severus had idly thumbed through a good portion of _Idylls of the King_ when he was distracted by a pained cry from Harry's bedroom. Cursing himself for not asking Albus to send along a few vials of Dreamless Sleep, Snape hurried into Harry's room, not bothering to knock. Upon seeing Harry there, sitting up in bed and quite awake, Severus had the horrible vision of late night noises in the boys' dormitories at Hogwarts, hormones raging and breaking through any sense of etiquette and mercy for the sensibilities of less _randy_ roommates. Thankfully though, Harry started rubbing his forehead, his face scrunched up in pain. For some reason, this was much better than the other scenario in Severus's opinion.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, as if snapping at Harry would erase the thoughts that had just been going through his head.

"Nothing, I just smacked my head on the nightstand," Harry grimaced. "God that smarts."

"Let me see," Severus said, striding up to the side of the bed and brushing the hair off Harry's face, trying to keep from looking down, where the sheet covering Harry's naked form had dropped low, revealing a slight trail of hair leading down from his navel. "You've got a small cut, but it looks as if it's stopped bleeding," he whispered, just then catching the stare that Harry was leveling at him. "I'm sorry I burst in on you," he blurted out, yelling at himself to take his hand off of Harry's forehead. Only a few moments later did it finally listen to him.

"It's fine. You were just making sure I'm ok," Harry answered.

"I'll go," Severus said, turning to leave, but again, Harry caught his wrist and kept him from leaving. Only he didn't ask him to stay, and then graciously give him room on the mattress. Instead, Harry tugged on his arm, and Severus thought for a moment that he was being lured into a kiss. But Harry shocked him once again by pulling Severus's hand down further and, uncurling the fingers that had recoiled in sheer terror, placed the palm on his stomach, right where it had been when they both awoke that morning. And then he just stared at Severus, stared as if he didn't know what he meant by any of this. "Do you mind if I stay?" Severus asked, his voice softer than he'd ever heard it before, even when he had been a child.

"No, I don't," Harry answered, just as quietly. Severus didn't move his hand away from Harry. He merely repositioned it as he climbed over Harry's legs and settled in beside him.

"Are you cold?" Harry asked.

"No."

So Harry twisted on his side to face Severus and, removing the older man's hand from his stomach, proceeded to strip Severus of his sweater and under shirt.

"Are you cold?" Harry repeated. Severus wondered why it didn't sound like a game. A tease. A flirtation. Why did it sound like Harry wanted him to define his state of being? 

"Yes," he whispered. And Harry began to pull the blanket over their chests, as he also slid into Severus's arms, wrapping his own about his waste, easing his leg over Severus's thigh, pressing chest against chest, burying his face in the hollow of Severus's neck.

"Are you cold?" Severus could barely hear it, but he could feel it, warm and moist and shaking against his shoulder. 

"No."

So Harry pulled his left arm from beneath Severus and, his face still hidden in Severus's neck, blindly began fumbling with the buttons to Severus's trousers, pausing after having undone the zipper, as if unwilling to give up the contact he had with Severus in order to completely divest him of his clothes. But he gave in to whatever was driving him and sat up, throwing the blankets off Severus and stripping him of his pants.

"Are you cold?" Of course Severus was cold. It was near sixty degrees in the little stone bedroom and all that he had to protect him was a thin pair of boxers. 

"Yes." Severus didn't understand why he hadn't barked his answer. He didn't understand why he didn't feel humiliated. Why he didn't feel vulnerable. Why he didn't feel repulsed or indignant or dishonest or immoral. He only knew that he _didn't_.

And Harry again drew the covers around them, and he again wrapped himself around Severus, and he again breathed his question into Severus's skin, and again Severus said "yes", because he knew he could be so much warmer.

"How did it feel, the first time you killed a person?" Harry asked. It was near sunset when the pair had woken up, disentangled themselves and moved as far away from each other as they could while still remaining on the bed and under the covers. And neither of them knew why that had been the immediate reaction.

"Why do you want to know?" Severus sighed, wearily wiping the sleep from his eyes and cursing the cold that he was becoming more and more aware of every second he spent away from Harry's body heat.

"I was just wondering if it felt the same for you," Harry answered. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

"I know," Severus snapped, mainly because he was so bloody angry that he _did_ have to tell Harry, no matter what the younger man said. "I felt…defeated," he answered. Then he ran through a list in his mind of what Harry could have expected him to say. That he felt powerful, or righteous, or free, or aroused. And what would any of those false answers mean? If you kill someone and feel better for it, you're a monster. If you feel worse, you're weak for letting the moment dictate your morals. And even though Severus wasn't foolish enough to think that it _really_ boiled down to those two choices, he wasn't sure about Harry. And that uncertainty alone made him want to crucify himself and take Harry with him. "Was that the right answer?" he sneered.

"I don't know. How do I judge an answer like that?" Harry asked, a bitter smile marring his face. "I felt defeated too, but I shouldn't be happy that we have this in common, should I?"

"Why are you all the way over there?" Severus asked, finally tilting his head so he could see just how far Harry had slipped away.

"Because you're worried about something," Harry mumbled. "You're worried and I'm worried that nothing I say or do will change that."

"What is it you think I'm worried about?" Severus asked.

"Can't we put some clothes on?" Harry asked, his voice almost pinched into a whine. "We can't have this conversation like this."

"Harry," Severus laughed, "I could be fucking you into a wall and we could still have _this_ conversation. Unless you think that the reason I seem…apprehensive is due to some insecurities about the more carnal aspects of what happened this afternoon, in which case I'd say the conversation is over."

"No, I know it's not about that, directly at least. I just thought that if you regret it already, you might be more attentive on what I have to say if you weren't focused on getting the hell out of my bed as quickly as possible."

"What makes you think I regret it?" Severus asked. 

"Well, why are _you_ all the way over there?" Harry asked.

Severus didn't have any answer to that, so he inched his way over to Harry's side of the bed, but stopped before they were touching. "Now, what is it that you think I'm thinking?"

"Wouldn't it be easier for you to actually _tell_ me what you're thinking?" Harry asked, genuinely whining this time.

"Maybe, but where's the fun in that?" Severus smirked.

"Fine," Harry sighed. "I think that you think that I think I owe it to you to love you."

"That's a lot to untangle," Severus answered, rolling his head to his side, just to have some contact with Harry, his forehead against the elbow of the arm Harry's face was propped up with. "Do you think that you owe it to me?"

"Do you think I think so?" Harry countered.

"Maybe. And maybe I'm just worried that you don't. Want to love me, that is. Because I want you to, Harry," Severus whispered.

"And you think I can? Love?" Harry asked, his voice almost strangled by the power Severus's statement had over him.

"Harry, you already do! You love Sirius and Remus and Hermione and Weasley and the memories of your parents. You love goodness and bravery. You love poetry and flying. You love this place. The Dementors don't have the power to steal that from you unless they kiss you, and you know that. The only thing they can take from you is the memory of a life worth living. And now you're just too scared to take it back."

"I'm not scared!" Harry yelled.

"Gryffindor bravery rears its ugly head," Severus snarled. "Pity that honesty is a no-show."

"Yeah, but you're glad for it because it means you don't have to admit that you're terrified," Harry growled.

"Of what?" Severus hissed.

"See, you just want me to make a list so you don't have to own up to anything," Harry argued.

"Fine, I'll confess _all_ if you do the same. Yes, I'm terrified. I haven't allowed myself to be with anyone for eight years, and one day with you changed all that. I'm terrified when I think that the reason I came here in the first place was to make sure you hadn't killed yourself. I'm terrified by the image that I had in my head of finding you here and not being able to do a damn thing to wake you up. I'm terrified that I might be some small part of your plan to get over Azkaban, and I'm terrified that I'd even settle for that just because I'd be glad to help you in any way. And I'm terrified that you might love me and that I might not have enough to give. And I'm terrified that you might not love me and that I'll have to go home and wait another eight years, and another, until I'm too old to care that I'm alone. And those are only a few of the reasons that I was so scared to wake up in your arms that I fled to the other side of the bed."

"Are you quite finished?" Harry asked, once Severus regained his breath.

"Yes."

And then Harry was devouring him whole, his lips pressing so hard against Severus's that even the small and damnably grateful moan was swallowed by Harry's soul. 

"God, why does it hurt so much that I can't be swallowed into you completely?" Harry whispered once he released Severus's mouth. Severus was shocked to look up and see those green eyes made ten times brighter with unshed tears. "I mean it, Severus. It's worse than Cruciatus, this thing rippling over my heart." And some of those tears fell, dropping onto Severus's cheeks.

"You need to cry out," Severus answered. "It'll help."

And Harry buried his face in Severus's neck, shivering and sobbing uncontrollably and all Severus could do was trace Harry's spine with the pads of his fingers, hum into Harry's hair, and wait for it to pass.

"I love you," Harry was crying, every word broken by quick inhalations and spurts of tears. "Please don't say I can't because it's too soon. I already feel like my heart is breaking."

"Shh," Severus answered. "Why are you so sad?"

"What if neither one of us is enough?" Harry asked, more evenly as he stopped crying, but more breathless as he became aware of Severus's hands.

"Does it sound disgusting to say that we'll be enough together?" Severus asked.

"Yes," Harry answered, unless he hadn't heard the question and was only responding to Severus's touch. Neither of them could make the distinction.

"Then let's just be glad I didn't say it."

And then Harry and Severus were too busy to speak, too hopeful to ask questions, too desperate to answer them. And then they were too in love to hide, too healed to wound, too alive to believe that one day it would end. And years on, when one would ask, "Do you love me still?", the other would answer:

"Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd;

I strove against the stream and all in vain:

Let the great river take me to the main:

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;

Ask me no more."

The End.

Soundtrack for this story (AKA, where the hell did that idea come from?):

****

Disarm by Smashing Pumpkins

Disarm you with a smile

And cut you like you want me to.

Cut that little child

Inside of me and such a part of you.

Ooh, the years burn

I used to be a little boy,

So old in my shoes,

And what I choose is my choice.

What's a boy supposed to do?

The killer in me is the killer in you,

My love.

I send this smile over to you.

Disarm you with a smile

And leave you like they left me here

To wither in denial,

The bitterness of one who's left alone.

Ooh, the years burn

Ooh, the years burn, burn, burn.

I used to be a little boy,

So old in my shoes,

And what I choose is my voice.

What's a boy supposed to do?

The killer in me is the killer in you,

My love.

I send my smile over to you.

The killer in me is the killer in you…


End file.
